I remember the day he died very clearly, almost as if it was yesterday. Every moment vivid in my mind.  Printed, like lonely words on a worn out sheet of paper.  Pictured, like black and white photos.  The old ones, the kind we can’t get anymore, just like those memories with my papa.  They’re old, fragile, precious, impossible to replace, so I hold on to them with everything that I have because they’re something that I never want to let go.

Once a year I would get to see him.  Only once!  My family, mainly my parents, chose one week in July to drive down to North Carolina to visit my grandparents, along with other family members in the area around him.  I remember sitting in the car for hours upon hours, watching movie after movie, coloring page after page in my Disney princess coloring book, eating snack after snack, and constantly saying those four words over and over. “Are we there yet?”.  The answer it seemed was always no!  We would usually arrive once I had fallen asleep.
“Wake up”, my mom would whisper.  My tired eyes would slowly open, trying to adjust to the light.  It was dark out, but the car lights were shining brighter than ever.  I felt as if they were shining into my soul.  A little dramatic, yes!, but I was tired.  I would get up and grab a couple of my small belongings that I had kept by my feet during the drive and put them under my arm to carry inside that way if my dad asked , “did you get anything to carry in?’, I could say “yes, yes I did”.
I would climb out of the car slowly, even though I wanted to get inside as quickly as possible to get to bed, but there was always something ridding me of that opportunity, my papa.  He would always be standing on the porch, waiting for his greeting and hugs, and I was always more than willing to jump into his arms.  He had this certain smell.  I remember it exactly, but I could never describe it, and I still can’t.
Upon seeing him, it was as if I was no longer tired.  I would jump up and run up the brick stairs right to my papa.  He would pick me up and give me a big hug.  I miss his hugs.  They were always warm, firm, but gentle.  He never looked any different.  The same lively smile, same white hair slicked back on top of his head, everything was always the same.
The time of our trip there would always seem to fly by.  Something I absolutely hated.  I always wanted to stay longer than we could, but my papa always made sure to make the most of the time that we had together.  We would all go to the beach, or go shopping, or my personal favorite, play a game or two of croquet.  My papa would always win, and to this day I do not understand how he won every single time.  After his conquest he would do this little victory dance.  I miss those silly dances.  He was the liveliest and the most energetic man I had ever met in his age range.
I have few memories, seeing the time I got to spend with him was always short and limited.  There was one day I remember better than anything else, and that was a day we had spent together at the beach.  “What beach?”, you may ask. Good question!  I was young, and I couldn’t go out to far into the water so my papa and I just went to where it reached maybe the top of my legs, but the water seemed to make it only to his knees.  We were holding hands, splashing the cold, salty water at each other, just having a good time.  All of a sudden, we saw a wave coming from afar.  It was larger than any of the others, the tip of the wave folded over, like a piece of paper, but it kept coming, making its way to the shore.  When the wave got to us it almost knocked us off our feet.  What we didn’t notice, until a few seconds or so later, was that my papa had lost a bit of balance and his hat had fallen off of his head.  We looked around, but couldn’t spot it anywhere.  It seems like something simple, but my papa and I found it funnier than you could ever imagine.  Tears sprang into both of our eyes as a result of our rhapsodic laughter, blurring our vision.  I miss his laughter!

When I found out that my papa had been diagnosed with lung cancer, I was shocked.  All I could think was, “no, not my papa”, but it, in fact, was my papa. Within no time he went from being so healthy and enthusiastic to frail and quiet. That man looked just like my papa, but at the same time, he looked nothing like him at all.  He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t eat and he was so small and fragile, almost like a little baby.
I remember being in the hospital.  I would just walk around or sit in the cafeteria.  My cousin would sit with me telling me, “it will all be okay”, but it wouldn’t because it wasn’t.  One day, we (a bunch of family and I) were all gathered in the hospital room when we heard my papa make a sort of noise. “What was that dad?”, my Uncle Virgil asked.  My papa then pointed to my mother, and she went to him and said, “yeah dad?”.  “I….I love you Lisa”, he said quietly, so quietly that if even a pen had dropped, you wouldn’t have known what he had said.  The whole room erupted in cheers and smiles, thinking he was getting better.  Truth was, he wasn’t. He passed a couple weeks later, those being the last words he spoke.
I remember holding his hand as he lay there on that hospital bed, lifeless. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t cry; I was numb or so it felt like it. I felt as if I was a thin, fragile piece of glass being violently rapped upon by a myriad of emotions that could cause me to shatter at any moment in time. I was completely and utterly broken, knowing that he had left us, but I was happy, knowing he was in a better place; somewhere where he would no longer feel pain. He was content now, and I think knowing that is what kept me going.
I visit his grave when we take our annual trip, but it’s always hard.  I never make it out of the cemetery tear free.  With all the memories flooding back into my mind, I just can’t help it.  I miss him!